


Finding Direction Jubilite-Style

by SpringTop (dekarrin)



Category: Psycholonials (Visual Novel)
Genre: Blood, Blood Kink, Clowns, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Derogatory Language, Omorashi, Other, Rope Bondage, Slapping, Tickling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-16 11:42:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29949474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dekarrin/pseuds/SpringTop
Summary: You have been following this @z69clownboner420 for weeks, and after a lifetime of watching the world turn on itself, you've decided you want to more directly dedicate yourself to the cause. You make some calls, prove your pranxis, and are eventually asked to pay a visit to the clowny base of operations.They'll let you in, provided your convictions are strong enough. You'll just need to get through your initiation.
Relationships: Z | Zhen (Psycholonials)/Reader
Kudos: 4





	Finding Direction Jubilite-Style

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta'd. This was a thought exercise and character exploration for me.
> 
> Posted one day prior to the release of ch 5.

You open your eyes. Blurry, can’t see much. Want to rub them.

Your arms do not obey, as they’re tied to the chair behind your back with solid cords. You begin to remember why you’re here. For her. For you. For everyone.

You’re in a drafty and unfinished room, possibly in a basement of some kind. There’s a single dim, red light in the middle of the ceiling rafters that puts everything in an eerie blood-colored cast. The room is empty except for your chair, a mean-looking metal medical cot with far too many sharp angles, and a steep staircase in the corner leading up to darkness.

There’s absolutely no sign of anybody except for you. It’s nice. So much quieter than usual, nobody else to deal with, no more sounds to overwhelm you. You have a feeling it would be dead silent if it weren’t for the occasional whir of a nearby vent and the steady drip-drip of a leaky pipe.

You’re sitting in a metal folding chair, and are rendered totally immobile by the aforementioned ropes weaving between your limbs. It’s cold and uncomfortable, and you can’t remember the last time your back was this stiff. You have no idea how long you’ve been here.

Kidnapped? No. You chose to be here. You asked for this. The world is fucked and she’s the only one who knows how to fix it.

You try your best to roll your shoulders to relieve the ache in your back. It doesn’t work, and that’s not the only unpleasant sensation. You haven’t eaten in god knows how long, and your mouth is so dry that you wouldn’t be surprised if you literally coughed up dust.

Maybe this was a mistake. There’s no telling what’s going to happen next, or how long it’ll take.

But the pain in your body is nothing compared to your rage at humanity, your disappointment at every person who steps forward and claims to have the answers, every leader who stirs up the pot, every single hot take that aims only to destroy others. You focus on that anger, let it distract from the world with its cares and troubles and backs with mounting soreness and fatigue.

No. This wasn’t a mistake. Somebody has to do something. You’re making the right choice.

The door at the top of the stairs swings open and bright room lights are switched on. You squeeze your eyes shut too late to keep from being blinded by the sudden brightness, and you cry out.

“Oh, hi there!” A cheery voice rings out, way too loud for your oversensitive ears but somehow familiar. Your head hurts, you’re confused. “Pretty sick to finally meet you IRL. Not every day that I get to meet a full-on impsimp.”

That voice! You’re talking to none other than @z69clownboner420, your hero, Z!

God Z is so awesome. She gets it. The system is fucked, so fucked. Every charlatan out there promises the perfect way of getting things “as they should be”, and they don’t ever stop. Every political force put forward, every effort for “change”, none of it mattered. In the end the only thing they did was serve to further increase the rifts between everyone.

You try to respond to her but you end up in a coughing fit, and Z giggles cruelly at your efforts.

“Go ahead, imp,” she says, “take your time.”

You catch your breath and manage to croak out a “Hello”.

Z’s different from the others. She knows that this rotted mess of a system can’t be fixed from the inside, and actually gives a shit about humanity being better instead of just using others for her own goals. And unlike you, Z actually does something about it.

Your eyes slowly start to adjust and your hero comes into view. She’s decked out in clown wear and facepaint, almost exactly the same as the one she used when she first launched. It’s a classic look that you can’t help but admire. You can almost taste the vibes of contempt for it all that her chaotic outfit gives off.

She smiles at you and traces a finger down your arm, making your hairs stand on end. “Did my clowns give you the 411 on what all is gonna happen here?”

You gulp and nod.

“Fukin nice! I mean, not that there’s much of a choice, now.” Z slides a finger across your lips and boops your nose. “You know how it is! You get your imp designation, you’re on a fast track to making a real difference in this shithole of a world.” She chuckles. “But we gotta make sure you’re ready first.” Her advances make you uncomfortable. But this is the only way to move forward. God knows you haven’t come up with a better solution. Just need to let Z help get you toughened up.

Z walks behind your chair. “Cool so lesson 1,” she says, slashing a well-trimmed nail across the back of your neck. You let out a screech just in time for her to cut you again. You beg her to stop. She doesn’t. “Pain is a tool used to keep us in check,” she says calmly between your yelps. “Gotta rise above that shit.”

Warmth starts to ooze down your back, dripping down your collar as Z continues to rake at your skin. Her fingers slip as they grow sticky with your blood. It hurts, too much to think of much else. You want to help, you do. You know she is just making you stronger. You knew this was coming. Just need to hang on to that.

You scream as Z slices along your forearm. Too much. You aren’t ready, the pain tells you. You just want it to stop. “Please,” you gasp. “It’s too much, I-I can’t…”

To your surprise, she does stop, and you let out a sigh of relief. She releases your arms and legs from the chair but keeps them bound to each other, and you slump against the chair.

Z slaps you across the back of your head, knocking you to the ground. “Weak!” she screams as she kicks into your fallen form. “Pathetic! How the fuck do you expect to be able to stand up to the fake bullshittery of the world if you can’t even hold up to a little roughhousing, huh?”

She’s right. You need to do better. You got this. “Let me try again, please! I can take it!”

Z crouches over you, her breath hot and heavy. “Then it’s not enough,” she whispers. “You can’t just stop at taking it. Those are the lies that were drilled into you by a life of being spat out by the world in the name of ‘righteousness’.”

She sighs as she reaches a hand down towards your face. You flinch away instinctively, but her touch is soft and light, and it’s impossible to not relax and sink into the feeling of being cared for as she strokes your cheeks. “Like, this hurts me more than it hurts you. I never wanted to bring anything but laughter to the world.”

Z stands up and starts pacing about the room, her expression growing darker with every turn. “But there’s some shit that you just gotta be ready for. Your friends will turn on you. You’ll be tossed to the ground in a heap. You’re gonna lose your job, your home, everything that you ever held dear.”

“Not mine,” you manage feebly. “Never was. Ownership is a lie made to suppress the weak.”

“Haha, very good.” Z laughs. “There’s that good pranxis shit. Might be hope for you yet, you fucking imp.”

She helps you up, but makes no effort to untie your arms. You know better than to think that you’re done.

Z pulls you by the arm and you let yourself be led to the only other item in the room, the medical cot. She pushes you down into it, finally releasing your arms from their bonds only to secure them to the straps on the cot.

You lay there, your arms splayed above you and your legs splayed below. You pull on your arm to test the straps; they’re so tight that you can barely even wiggle your hands, let alone have any chance of escape.

But you made it this far. No going back now. Not that you were planning to.

“What are you doing?” you ask.

“So you pretty much killed it on the pain front,” Z replies, pulling a pair of scissors from her pocket. “But you’re not done yet.” She slips the blade of the scissors under your clothes and cuts them open. You shudder at the cold hitting your bare skin, and Z snorts in response. “Wow like. You just sat through getting the fucking shit beat out of you and you’re still shaking at the cold.” She spits on you. “Fucking weak.”

Her words don’t hurt you. It’s just how she rolls. She’s making you stronger. Let them bounce off.

Z tosses your clothing fragments to the side and begins sliding a hand about your body. You try and shy away from her touch but the straps don’t leave you much room. There’s nothing you can do to stop her from probing you everywhere.

It’s okay. If that’s what she needs, if this is the way she can put you to use, it’s alright. You want to help. You’re ready to give up everything, including your body, should it be so desired.

“Holy shit,” Z laughs. “Are you actually panting at this shit? You might actually be more messed up than me.”

All you can do is make a half-hearted noise in response.

“Pssh like I give a fuck either way. Don’t get too comfy with it.”

Z pokes at a spot on your side and it damn near makes you jump out of your skin. She gives a low laugh. “Oh, that noise you made was different! Didn’t sound much to me like a pathetic imp overcome with lust.” She leans over you with the barest hint of a smile, eyes staring far past your own in a manic gaze. ”You ticklish?”

“M-Maybe,” you say, blushing as you try and hold back laughter. “A little.”

“A *little*?” she asks with a smirk as she starts to tickle you with both hands. You completely lose your shit, twisting and squirming in your straps fruitlessly as Z sweeps over you. “This is way too much fun,” she says.

You’re barely able to breathe, and you scarf down as much air as you can manage before erupting in uncontrollable laughter. “But, but!” you say between gasps. “Why?”

“HEHEHEHEH wellllllll,” Z says with a flourish, “a true practitioner of pranxis is ready for all kinds of mocking, whether it be for the joke or for the world. So in this silly little training sesh, imp, we’ll be completely ruining you!”

She starts tickling you more and more; you can barely get a breath in. Your laughter devolves into a feral cry as she keeps touching you.

“PLEASE!” you shout between laughs. “IM GONNA HAHAHAH IM GONNA”

“What? Huh? What?” Z asks mockingly, not even bothering to slow down.

“IM GONNA WET MYSELF PLEASE STOP!” “Awww, you still holding it in?” She pouts and doubles her efforts. Her hands are all over you and she’s not stopping. “Now why would you do that?” She giggles. “Just let it go, like your past life.”

She grazes the perfect spot and you go completely ballistic, your laughter elevating to hysterical nonsensical shrieking. Sometime in between your fourth and fifth shriek, you finally succumb to your urges and let yourself release. A warmth begins spreading across the front of your pants. It’s amazing. You were so foolish to fight against it; why had you waited for so long?

Z stops touching you and kneels next to your table. She shivers with barely-contained laughter as she watches your chest heave with sick fascination. “Yeah, good little imp.”

As you slowly regain awareness of your surroundings, Z backs away from you. She pulls out her scissors and slices her own finger. Z pauses for a moment, fascinated by the drops of blood collecting on the cut. Then she walks up to you, takes her other hand and dips it into the blood that had collected under your neck.

Breathing shakily, she presses her hands together, blending her own blood in with yours. “Fuck yeah this is some powerful shit,” she whispers. She holds up her bloodied finger and marvels at it, then climbs onto the cot, straddling you. She’s giggling under breath and nearly falls off the bed, but catches herself.

Laying there in your own putridly perfect stench, with your hero poised above you, you realize just how fucking little you care about appearances.

It felt nice. It was nice to feel nice for a change, to let your emotions run completely wild. Fun, but in a funny sort of way.

Z dangles a finger in front of your face. Your combined blood mixes together, glistening in the stark lighting. Without warning, she swipes her hand on your face, leaving a smeared trail of blood behind. “The old you is dead, motherfucker. We’re in this together now.”

“It’s over?” you ask, scarcely daring to believe it.

“Over?” Z says with a chuckle. She hops off the table and starts untying your restraints. “Haha, hell no, friend. It’s just starting.”


End file.
